


It's the Thought That Counts

by plumeria47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9461507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: Sherlock has a rather untraditional view of Christmas, but he still manages to find John an proper gift.  (Can be viewed as gen or pre-slash, your choice.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written during the 2013 holidays.

I’ve always liked Christmas, I must admit. Yes, there’s rather a lot of ridiculous pomp and consumerism at times. Office holiday parties usually end up with someone getting pissed to an embarrassing degree. Usually that isn’t me. Usually. But even so – I love the smell of pine from the trees and boughs strung up everywhere, the brightly coloured lights brightening up what would otherwise be long dreary nights. Music you secretly like humming along to plays from every shop’s PA system. 

Of course, Sherlock’s main joy at Christmas is the uptick in crimes. Most of it is beneath him – petty theft, domestic disturbances due to overlong family visits, that sort of thing. But with all the hustle and bustle and general chaos, there’s also an increase in murders and kidnappings being committed, with people so busy they don’t notice if there’s suddenly one less person in the crowd. Or perhaps suddenly half a million pounds less in the bank’s vault. Those are the things that get his blood moving. He doesn’t give a fig for the colourful baubles, unless a broken one or a light out of place tells him that the suspect was left handed and smoked a particular brand of ciggies as he entered the crime scene at 2:43 a.m. Or something.

Over the years, he’s learned that I like to celebrate the holiday whether there’s been a murder or not, and that a card or some little trifle is appreciated, although I have likewise learned over the years not to take offence if he forgets, or if he considers it a true symbol of his regard for me when he presents the gristly results of his “research” as his gift. We’ve both come to at least appreciate what’s truly important to the other person, even if we’re still at a bit of a loss to explain it.

Which was why it somehow seemed completely fitting that on the night before Christmas we were hunkered down in an absolutely freezing abandoned warehouse waiting for creatures to stir – in other words, to catch the most recent bastard red-handed. And while we were huddled beneath an old worktable, keeping a vigilant eye in all directions, Sherlock suddenly and unexpectedly shifted. Just a little to the right. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small clear bottle, then held it out to me without a word. The light was exceedingly dim in the warehouse, but it looked like the bottle contained small pale shapes. Shapes that moved. 

“Happy Christmas, John,” Sherlock whispered, his lips practically brushing my ear as he pushed the bottle into my hand.

I know what I said about being pleased when Sherlock remembered Christmas at all, but I was still baffled by this year’s choice of gift. “Er, thank you?” I whispered back, trying not to let my breath smoke too much in the frigid air. “The grubs are very … nice.”

“They’re bottle flies,” Sherlock corrected, as if this explained everything. “For your practice.”

I simply stared at him.

“Maggots,” he added, his whisper growing terse and impatient at my failure to draw the appropriate conclusions. “You were going on the other day about a wound patient you were having difficulty treating, so I thought…”

Ah. Memory finally clicked. “You thought to provide me with an alternative treatment,” I said. I had, indeed, read somewhere about maggots being used to clean away bacteria and dead cells on stubborn wounds, but that had been quite some time ago – to the point I had almost forgotten about it - and I was sure I had never mentioned it to Sherlock. 

I held up the little bottle to inspect it more closely. Amazing how beautiful something like maggots could look, under the right circumstances, better than all the bedecked halls in England. In fact, the maggots were possibly the most beautiful gift I had ever received. It’s not every day you receive the means to save someone’s limb – and perhaps their life. I gave Sherlock my warmest smile as I clasped his hand in thanks. “I love it,” I whispered. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know this ficlet is ridiculously short, but if you felt so inclined to leave a comment, I would greatly appreciate it! Consider it the holiday gift that keeps on giving. *g* And thanks for reading!


End file.
